Ghosts
by lingering nomad
Summary: Thirteen years… Foolish optimism to hope that Tom-bloody-Riddle would be the only spectre to mark that number as the limit of his peace.


**Series: **Haunted

**Title: **Ghosts

**Author:** lingering_nomad

**Characters:** Severus, OFC

**Disclaimer:** The Harry Potter series with all characters and settings featured therein, is the property of JK Rowling, Warner Bros, various publication houses etc. I stake no claim by using it in this story. This is written purely for recreational purposes. No money is being made and no harm is intended. Original content not part of the Potterverse belongs to me, so if you want to use, please give credit where due.

**Rating:** R

**Word Count:** 9 205

**Warnings:** AUish, angst, dark undercurrents, pureblood classism, liver abuse, mention of sex for money.

**Excerpt: **Thirteen years… Foolish optimism to hope that Tom-_bloody_-Riddlewould be the only spectre to mark that number as the limit of his peace.

**A/N:** My take on the "what if Snape had a kid" angle. Tried to keep it as close to canon as you can get with this topic, so no m-preg, no divine births by obscure Celtic deities and no torrid affairs with Lily Potter – just the ordinary dysfunctions of a society at war. _Fated_ is sort of like the prelude to this, so it might make sense to read that first. _And_ I just want to point out that Adrien Brody is who I see in my head when I write Sev. Nothing against Rickman, but the dude was fifty-five when the character he's playing was supposed to be thirty-two. Do the math.

~SEVERUS~

He tossed his head back, draining half the amber fluid in his tumbler in one swig. The glass was slammed down on the surface of his kitchen table with enough force to send a good portion of the remaining whisky sloshing onto the stained hardwood, only to be replenished from the bottle clutched in a hand made clumsy in his haste. More of Ogden's finest spilled onto the table as the bottle was righted, lapping at the edges of the morning's _Daily Prophet_; the black-and-white image of a skull and serpent leering up at him from the front page.

Severus sneered back, throwing another gulp of liquid fire down his throat.

Thirteen years.

It seemed at once too long and too short a reprieve.

Of course he'd known, deep down, that it couldn't last. Always had. A man's judgment didn't fail him as miserably and as consistently as his had done only to shrug it off and move on. And as is the way of such things, it was bound to happen when one least expected it. Part of him kept insisting that it meant _nothing_. Merely pack-mentality getting the better of a grouping of dissolute simpletons, _hardly_ cause to be drinking himself into a stupor.

If only the blackened outline searing the flesh of his left forearm were so easily explained away...

If he were a man to look for silver linings then it might've been worth noting that he was, at the very least, cutting down on the decadence of the vices he himself had been indulging since the end of term had resigned him to his own company and that of the ghosts which were never far behind. It was they, _the ghosts_, who reminded him that there was no such thing as "coincidence." Not where Tom Riddle was concerned.

And he was not alone in this deduction, as proven by Albus' early-morning summons.

The headmaster was quite the Jekyll-and-Hyde when it came to interrogation, pouring tea and carrying on until the precise moment that one allowed oneself to be lulled into familiarity, before that steely edge would sweep the twinkle from his eyes, pinning a man where he sat and slicing through the layers of his very soul with a precision not even the Dark Lord had managed to achieve. Albus may have stopped short of demanding to see his left arm, but the manner in which he'd questioned if Severus had anything he wished to report...

He'd confessed then, with all the restraint of a man drunk on _Veritaserum_, about the nightmares and the cold sweats and the Mark becoming starker, and it was only after he'd run out of words that Albus had slapped the paper down before him.

"I believe the time for vigilance is upon us once more, dear lad," he'd said solemnly. Before remarking on the crossword and asking whether Severus knew of a six letter word meaning to "appear comprehensive by ignoring complexities."

Dumbledore was a great many things, unpredictable being foremost among them. And it was _that_, almost more so than his considerable magical abilities, which made him so formidable an opponent to anyone who attempted to cross him – as _he_ of all people would know. There were few who'd seen this _other_ side to the headmaster and even fewer who'd believe Severus' estimation of his patron's character, but Albus Dumbledore was as cunning and ruthless as any Slytherin could aspire to be, and it was the man's skill at misdirection which was perhaps his greatest weapon in matters of politics.

And in matters of war.

He'd left the headmaster's summer abode in Wales, Apparating straight to the Cauldron's foyer and had spent most of the afternoon and early evening in London, browsing through the apothecaries in Diagon; the bookshops in Nocturn in a somewhat successful endeavour to escape the mulling of his own mind. The shops had begun closing their doors for the night when he found himself in the company of the senior Malfoy and his wife (the junior left to Zabini hospitality on the Adriatic Coast) and on the receiving end of an invitation to an overly opulent evening meal with tight smiles and smarmy pleasantries about Draco and the Ministry and, inevitably, the bloody World Cup and the headlines in the paper.

Lucius had sat across from him, the thin veneer of civility slipping ever so slightly to reveal the predator he knew to lurk within, even as he watched him sipping delicately at a glass Bordeaux, a bottle of which sold for the equivalent of Severus' monthly income. He couldn't imagine a wizard of Lucius' calibre, both in standing and cruelty, being content with the tawdry events detailed in the article, yet the man's relish was obvious to anyone familiar with the signs. It occurred to him then, with a rather embarrassing degree of slowness, that if _his _Mark were burning, then surely Lucius' was too. Which meant that his host's pleasure had little to do with recent events, but rather the memories – _and prospects_ – they roused and the _foie gras_ in his mouth turned to ash as he found himself assailed by recollections of his own.

He'd declined Lucius' offer to stay for breakfast, certain of the change of topic once Narcissa retired, and Apparated home, not even bothering to divest his outer robes before making a beeline for the cupboard under the sink and the bottle stashed within.

Staying and ferreting out Malfoy's secrets would've been the more productive option of course, but enthusiasm for his task was not a virtue he held in spades right now.

Could he _truly_ do this again?

Spend his days nattering to children about aconite and moonstone with even a modicum of credibility, while standing stoically by as their sires plotted genocide by night?

He sighed bitterly, restless despite being weary to the bone. Fingers dragged through his hair and another portion of whisky splashed into his glass, albeit with a tad more precision than before. He slammed it back, coughing a little as the liquid burned a path to his guts, letting his eyes drift closed as the first numbing tingles spread into his limbs.

... Only to be dispelled a moment later when a soft knock at his front door had him starting as though the wood had been kicked in.

He glanced at the water-damaged face of his kitchen clock: a quarter past ten in the evening.

He wasn't expecting anyone.

Severus' eye caught on _The Prophet _again and a tendril of irrational terror coiled 'round his mind, insisting that he Apparate away. He forced it back with a swig of whisky directly from the bottle and grabbed hold of his wand before rising to his feet – a great deal more steadily than he would've liked, but then, a man didn't spend the sum of his adult life in purgatory without building a tolerance to the effects of Ogden's finest.

~ALERIA~

The cabby had kept on casting what he probably thought were furtive glances her way for the entire drive from Solihull, none too subtle in expressing his misgivings about a girl her age, travelling alone with hardly any luggage to speak of. He'd demanded payment up front and she'd had him drop her off by the squalid little inn at the village centre some twenty minutes' walk from here, lest he track her down when her magic wore off and his forty quid turned back into newspaper clippings.

The chill of autumn was sharp in the air, tainted with the stench of rotting water blowing in from the river curling through the town like an poison-bearing artery.

She shivered, pulling the numb fingers of her left hand deeper into the sleeve of the oversized Muggle hoodie-thing she wore, her eyes flicking to the torn-off bit of takeaway wrapper clutched in the equally numb fingers of her right.

32 Spinner's End, Cradley Heath, Sandwell.

She looked back up at the number above the door.

It did indeed match.

She'd found it then.

She folded the paper and stuffed it into the back pocket of her jeans, adjusting the strap of her rucksack as she allowed her eyes to pan over the scenery for a proper look.

Decay hung about the place like a shroud, reminding her of a body in the throws death, simply waiting for the heart to stutter to a stop. The cobbled street was dirty and deserted, save for a lone vagrant shuffling his way to the rickety fish-and-chips shack 'round the bend. A dog barked incessantly in the distance; a baby's wail carried on the wind.

It was so like any of the scores of towns and villages she'd called home, however briefly, with her uncle and after all the manoeuvring it had taken to find this place, the sheer _ordinariness_ of it was proving something of a shock in itself.

Biting her lip, she drew a fortifying breath through her nose and raised a hand, grasping the simple black knocker and brought it down on the wood in four quick raps before her courage could desert her. She fidgeted, fiddling with the drawstrings protruding from the hemline of her top. The silence stretched a moment longer and then a flurry of sound erupted beyond the door, her breath stalling as she listened to the scrape of a chair, followed by the rustle of heavy cloth on a body as brisk, agitated footfalls drew nearer.

Even half anticipating it as she was, she couldn't suppress a start as the door was suddenly and violently flung open. The flicker from inside the house was too dim and the glare of streetlamps too bright, but for a moment, the figure darkening the architrave seemed made entirely of shadow. She blinked, uncannily aware of the way her neck was arching as she sought his face.

He was tall.

Taller than Uncle Vidius had been, if not quite as broad.

The man's lack of brawn did nothing to detract from the threat his demeanour projected, however. The scent of liquor hung about him in a miasma, irritating her throat, yet he seemed far from impaired as one onyx eye peered at her through a curtain of inky black, his flinty gaze sparking off her own.

She opened her mouth to speak, found her voice missing and swallowed before trying again.

She'd had a bit of a speech prepared, but Tartarus take her if she could remember so much as a syllable of it now.

"S—Severus Snape?" she queried, keeping her arms tightly folded and hoping to Merlin the man before her wouldn't notice how badly she was trembling. Chin up, Allie! she railed at herself. _Confidence_ was what people responded to, though Merlin knew, the way he was looming over her (not to mention the fifteen hours since her last meal) weren't exactly bolstering her nerves.

He hesitated a moment, eyes flitting over her form. "Yes," he hissed at last, a divot forming between his brows, sharpening the edge of malevolence in his glare.

"I... My name is Allie—_Aleria_. Winterbourne." She saw a tiny flick of the skin below one eye in what might've been a flinch of recognition at the name. Whatever inch of ground she'd thought to have gained was instantly nullified though, as she felt the stirring in the air, vague yet menacing, of magic coalescing to a central point.

Would he dare? In a _Muggle _street?

One look at the glassy jet of his gaze said _yes_, he would.

A pale, long-fingered hand came up, sweeping stray tresses behind his ear as his eyes scanned the street behind her for a moment before returning to her face, his features utterly expressionless as he studied hers, probably searching for some clue as to whether the name was coincidence or not. He quirked a brow then, wordlessly demanding that she explain herself.

Having expected at least _some_ comment from him, she was taken aback by the lingering silence. "My—my mother died," she stammered, "and now my uncle did too and—"

The man rolled his eyes and Allie caught the motion as he stood back and flung the door forward with a flick of the wrist, intent on slamming it in her face.

"_Patrificus Totalus!_" she barked, concentrating on the transfigured focusser on the string around her neck. She had no formal magical education and the implement wasn't made for her. It had belonged to her mother and didn't always shape her magic according to instruction, amplifying her relief when the door actually froze.

Again, her triumph was short-lived as the stare levelled upon her chilled her to the bone.

She shivered, moving jerkily as she shoved a hand into a pocked and plucked a rumpled roll of parchment from within. She thrust it at him like a weapon, swallowing hard to try and force the lump in her throat to go down.

This was her last chance.

If the _Denique Verum_ didn't sway him...

~SEVERUS~

He stared down at the child, insides roiling in a manner that had little to do with the liquor pickling his blood. He didn't remember issuing instructions for his hand to reach down and take the proffered roll of parchment from her, yet he found himself drawing the end of the ribbon tying it and unrolling the brittle ends with his thumbs.

His overtaxed mind didn't immediately register the significance of the apparently blank facade and he was about to thrust it back at her, insisting in no uncertain terms that she take her leave, when he felt the ripple of magic across its surface, drawing off his own – a common failsafe to keep the content hidden from Muggle eyes. He blinked, seeing bits of text flitting in and out of being like buoys in a storm:

_Decretum._

_Cruor._

_Signum._

_Nex._

His lips formed the words with nary a sound, but none was needed. As the last of the syllables flitted across his mind, the parchment rippled again, and patterns churned into being. The edges became lined with runes that should have been faded, yet gleamed, crimson as fresh blood, in the fluorescent light filtering from the streetlamps flanking his front door. It took a moment for his eyes to recognise the letters forming the body of the text, written in the swirls and flourishes that spoke of old magic and inevitability, seeming to smoulder upon parchment that if not for the arcane forces biding it together would've crumpled to dust in his grip.

_By the Passing of_

_INVIDIUS ORCUS WINTERBOURNE_

_Son and Heir of Orcus and __Astrid (nèe Burke) Winterbourne_

_The Residual Estate of the House of Winterbourne is_

_bequeathed with immediate effect upon the last of the line_

_ALERIA TISIPHONE WINTERBOURNE_

_Daughter of Severus Snape and Averna Winterbourne_

The will went on to describe a list of items that he didn't need to peruse to know was unremarkable. Even if the Winterbournes hadn't been all but wiped out and the family's assets stripped some years before the War had seen its end, as an illegitimate birth, the list of the girl's entitlements would've been modest at best.

Her inheritance of course, was rather low on his list of concerns.

He recognised the workings of _Denique Verum_ when he saw it: a spell intended to keep wealth in a family by magically recording succession via bloodline at the moment of the legator's death – somewhat akin to the principles of intestate succession under Muggle law, from what he understood. It was indeed more of a genealogical record than any true reflection of the dead man's wishes and a written and signed testament would negate the spell. Nonetheless, it was still a charm favoured by the rich and distinguished as a matter of tradition, or by those whose existence was measured in borrowed time. He himself had a piece of enchanted parchment locked away in a nearly empty vault at Gringotts, though to what end... He had no estate to speak of and even if he had, the lines of Snape and Prince ceased with him.

Or so he'd thought.

The spell was incapable of recording fraud, which meant...

Providedthe magic was _indeed_ genuine.

He scanned her form again from underneath his lashes, his trained eye estimating her age at around twelve. Perhaps thirteen.

He gritted his teeth.

But of course. Foolish optimism to hope that Tom-_bloody_-Riddle would be the only spectre to mark that number as the limit of his peace. Simply _looking_ at her, he found himself forced to concede that the services of a Curse Breaker might be redundant in determining the authenticity of the spell. It was quite eerie, really: seeing his own eyes reflected up at him from feminine features and a face so young. The Snape Nose had been tempered somewhat by maternal genes, but the wiry build, lank pitch-coloured hair, pallid complexion and sharp features were all too familiar to dismiss.

He couldn't help but feel a moment of wry sympathy for the chit. Merlin knew, it was trial enough for a boy to brave the world with such features. He could only imagine what a female might be made to endure.

_And_ _then_ there was the matronym she bore.

Even now, after all these years of obscurity it was still a name that sent a frisson of unease down his spine.

Orcus Winterbourne – the then clan patriarch – and both his heirless brothers had been slain near the Aberdeen Woods when a meeting was intercepted by Aurors during Severus' fourth year at school. Tales of murder and experiments with necromancy had run rampant and were hardly questioned given the family's age-old association with Death Magic.

Desperate for a means of curbing the inundating wave of dark magical activity sweeping the land, the Ministry had declared a mini-war of its own upon the remainder of the clan, seizing property and arresting family members and acquaintances alike, holding them for days to be questioned, while _The Prophet _saw to it that every lurid detail of the family's misdeeds, criminal or otherwise, was broadcast to the far corners of Wizardom, ensuring that none of the pureblood houses were overly keen to get their hands dirty by becoming involved.

With the Winterbourne name stripped of both affluence and power – the only virtues the old clans ranked on par with purity of blood – and no real aid from the Burkes forthcoming, Vidius and Averna had been left with an infamous name and little else with which to try and forge their path through the world.

Whether it was the junior Winterbournes who had renounced the Dark Lord's service or if the opposite held true was anyone's guess. Either way, it was the lack of endorsement regarding their allegiance to either side which ultimately earned them the title of pariah among purebloods and Muggle sympathisers alike. Which was how _he_ – a half-blood with a Muggle name – had found himself in the company of a witch whose lineage could well be traced back to Morgana herself.

~1980~

The drinkware almost shattered as he slammed it down on the counter, demanding silently that it be refilled. He sat slumped low over the bar, his shoulder-length hair (which was only now beginning to dry from the torrent he'd walked through to get to the pub) falling forward, shrouding his face and effectively shutting him off from the rest of the world as he stared unblinkingly at his reflection, distorted as it was in the bottom of his once-more-empty glass. He didn't look up as old Tom drew nearer, obligingly tipping the bottle against his cup, yet again replacing his own jumbled features with the amber swirls of firewhiskey.

"Alright there, laddie?" the innkeeper ventured benignly, not too terribly surprised when he got no response. He sighed deeply and shook his head, moving off to tend to another patron, leaving the obviously troubled youth to his brooding.

Severus Snape had loved two people in his life.

One of which was dead. A year to the day.

And the other...

Was pregnant with a pureblood's spawn.

Five years on, and the ache of her desertion still lingered, like a break that hadn't properly set.

And to top it off, he didn't even have the luxury of resenting her for the choices she'd made.

Oh she'd denied it of course, but he'd _seen_ the temptation in her eyes when James first began caterwauling at her like a tomcat on the prowl; _felt_ the growing reluctance in her association with _him_.

Indeed, he'd spat _that word _at her. Hissing it like a cobra ejecting its venom, but the poison of _her _vacillation had been festering in his veins for months and months before that fateful day when it had finally boiled over. In reminding her of what she was – that she had more in common with _him_ than she ever would with _them_ – he had given her an out, intended or not, and she'd accepted. As he'd known she would.

Black.

Potter.

Even Pettigrew to an extent.

Old families. Powerful. Wealthy. Respectable.

_He_ could offer her none of that and as the living pollutant in an ancient line, he was well enough acquainted with the discrimination levied upon those who'd treaded into the Wizarding World "by accident" to understand the allure. To be Muggle-born was to be heralded as a gypsy and a trespasser in the land of pureblood supremacy and what James Potter was offering – deliverance from the tainted blood in her veins; for her and the children she bore to be pulled into the folds of _proper _Wizardom – was not an opportunity a witch of her caste could've snubbed without having her faculties called into question.

As for Potter...

Well, it was no secret that the centuries of inbreeding was taking its toll on the established lines. Indeed, the growing prevalence of madness among the likes of Gaunt and Lestrange and Rosier and of course the Blacks themselves was driving many a thoroughbred son to seek a common bride – treason of principle proving the lesser evil when weighed against the scourge of hereditary insanity.

As is the tendency of such things, pureblood daughters would not be afforded the same leniency in their choice of suitor, which was of course what had seen his mother disowned. Marrying a pureblood would hold no salvation for _him_ as he'd still be saddled with _a Muggle's_ name, and thus, rather than elevating himself, he'd simply be pulling his fictional bride with him into disdain.

There was little hope for him, which lay at the core of what had swayed him to the Dark Lord's side: a chance at changing the world; a chance at ending on top for once.

If only he'd known what a callous mistress _Chance _could prove to be...

"_There_ you are! Oh thank Merlin, I was beginning to fear—"

He looked up, blinking as he found himself face to face with a very pretty auburn-haired girl. An auburn-haired girl with bright teal eyes.

So much like _hers_.

If he'd been sober, he might have noticed the etchings of desperation on that comely face, the hollowness of those eyes, or the deep shadows underneath, but with his senses dulled as they were, all he saw before him was an attractive woman with eyes like shamrock and hair the colour of autumn.

She stared at him blankly for a moment, something like defeat flitting over her features."Oh. Beg pardon. I mistook you for someone else," she apologised in a parlance not befitting her surroundings and turned to leave, but before she could take so much as a step, his hand had shot out and clamped around her wrist, halting her departure.

He stared up at her with wide black eyes, blinking as his vision blurred slightly under the effects of the alcohol.

She stared warily at his hand for a moment before looking up to find his face. Her brow furrowed slightly. "I recognise you," she said in a tone devoid of inflection. "You were a couple of years below me at Hogwarts... _Cerberus?_"

"Severus," he corrected, his voice a raw scratching in his throat, gaze still locked on hers as if mesmerised.

She nodded, though even in his inebriated state he had to wonder if she'd so much as heard the distinction. She closed her eyes then, opening them slowly in what he later realised might well have been a steeling of nerves. Her hand slid on the bar-surface, sending her lurching a bit as she braced to heft herself onto the high stool beside him.

She turned to face him then, her knees brushing against his thigh in the small space between the chairs. "My friends call me Verna," she said, leaning in close to his ear, making him sway where he sat. "And it seems to me that you and I are both in need of a friend tonight."

~1994~

His memories of the events that followed were hazy, but he recalled enough to know that money had changed hands – his first experience paying for access to another's body – followed by activities that may _well_ have left a foetus in their wake. Intoxicated as he'd been, his tolerance nowhere near what it was today, he'd taken her for a tart, believing her to be a professional and had stupidly, _credulously_ assumed that the necessary charms had been in place.

It was quite per chance that he'd learned her true identity some weeks later, and while he'd taken a moment to quail at yet another belated cautionary tale about just _where_ allegiance to his Master might lead, with the War hurtling headlong toward its peak, there simply hadn't been time to dwell on anything else.

Had he known...

Dear God.

A _child. _With his face and a pureblood's name...

The corner of Severus' mouth tightened at the thought. His mother would be _ever_ so proud.

~ALERIA~

"May I come in?" she finally dared when the silence had stretched long enough to become deafening. He blinked at her as though he'd forgotten she was there and then, to her amazement, stepped aside.

"If you wish," he all but whispered. The words were cold, smooth and sibilant, like the slide of a serpent over skin, making gooseflesh flare on her arms.

She regarded him warily.

Weighing.

Considering.

She needed his help. This man was all that stood between her and what amounted to exile in the Muggle foster care system – a fate which would bar her from the Wizarding World as completely as if she'd been born a Squib.

Could she trust him, though?

Did she dare?

Every fibre of her being wailed that to do so was madness.

But she was out of options.

She swallowed, feeling not unlike a rodent crawling into a python's den as she ducked her head and stepped over the threshold, hugging herself as her _Patrificus_ was dispelled and the door pulled closed behind her.

There was no foyer. The front door opened directly into a cramped sitting room, made to seem even more so by the dark floor to ceiling bookcases lining the walls and the sparse furnishings huddled together as they were. The interior of the house was only marginally warmer than the street; a candle-filled lamp hanging from the ceiling serving as the only apparent source of both light and heat in the room. A door to her left stood ajar, revealing a cluttered and equally dimly-lit kitchen, while another portal stood closed further along the wall, presumably leading to the private areas of the house.

Strife and violence hung in the air, old and stagnant, like the stench of the river outside, clogging her throat and making her already taut insides coil even tighter.

Just what sort of place _was_ this?

Turning to face her host, she was struck by the realisation of just how little she really knew about this man. Was he married? She hadn't seen a ring. He was a wizard and quite obviously to blame for the lamentable tresses that had been the bane of her existence for as long as she could remember, but how did he support himself? And why wasn't he living amongst his own kind?

The man was insufferably quiet again, standing with his arms crossed over his chest and tendrils of oily hair in his face, surveying her from under knitted brows as though not quite sure what to make of her. His bearing was tense, almost adversarial, making her shift awkwardly where she stood.

Unsure of what to do, she let her gaze flit between him and the items in the room, absently raising a hand to perch on the backrest of the old couch at her side. The moment her fingers lighted on the upholstery an image flashed, abrupt and vivid, of a young man with sweat-soaked curls, bent at the waist, fingers curved into claws as he clutched at the furniture, holding on for dear life as the man currently standing in front of her thrust into him at a ferocious pace.

Allie felt her eyes widen, the blood leeching from her face, and quickly ducked her head; mind spinning as she scanned the image, searching the emotions that had sparked it.

There was much range. And frustration.

But... Not cruelty.

Not force.

Brutal, but consensual.

Expelling the breath she hadn't been aware of holding she looked up through greasy tendrils of her own, praying that her host hadn't noticed her reaction. His eyes found hers first however, his enquiring expression dashing the vain hope. "I—I've not eaten recently. Dizzy spells," she covered quickly, heart thudding like a trapped bird behind her ribs.

The man's gaze shifted, a slight budge from questioning to calculation. There was a twinge behind her eyes and then the image of the sodomised youth was replaying in her mind, independently of her will. Her host's lashes fluttered closed for a moment and Allie blinked as something like a backlash reverberated in her skull.

Legilimency_._

Shit.

Uncle Vidius had done a bit of dabbling in the discipline, but he'd certainly never mustered a fraction of _this man's_ skill.

His dark eyes glittered in the firelight as he studied her, the set of his features betraying nary a thought.

"You're an Affectumens."

It wasn't a question and the fluttering in Allie's chest gained momentum. _That_ was one idiosyncrasy she had hoped to keep to herself for a while yet.

Mouth dry, she held her tongue, both surprised and immensely relieved when the man didn't press. His shuttered regard remained on her for a moment longer and then he sighed, the tension visibly draining from his bearing, though he looked more deflated than relaxed. A hand came up to pinch at the bridge of his considerable nose as if staving off a headache.

"He was a whore," he said, massaging his brow with a forefinger and thumb. "Compensated for his services and sent on his way. Would you like some tea?" His eyes found hers again, his hand falling to his side.

Allie swallowed, then nodded slowly.

"Have a seat then," he said, as cordially as she'd yet heard him speak. "And don't touch anything," was added for good measure as he turned and strode into the kitchen, black cloak billowing impressively as he moved.

Allie released a pent up breath of her own and walked 'round the couch to do as bade. Feeling spread thin and tired, she let her pack slide along her arms to plonk down on the worn green corduroy beside her, opting to heed the man's warning about respecting his privacy – as much for her own peace of mind as his.

While wholly unpleasant, he didn't seem evil and _that, _at least, was a start.

Hands wedged under her thighs for warmth, knees bouncing with nervous energy, she busied herself with reading the titles on the spines of the multitude of books lining the walls, dully aware of the quietly murmured spellwork from the kitchen; the sounds of flatware being arranged on a tray, a kettle coming to the boil. The titles of the books were varied and encompassing – from Fairfield's guideto _Magical Properties of Mandrake: Facts and Fiction _and Gray's _Anatomy_ _of the Human Body_ to a first edition of _Trois Filles de leurs Mères_ and an English translation of Dostoyevsky's _Notes from Underground_ – magical and Muggle, science and literature all standing side by side.

Had he read them all?

It seemed impossible and yet, somehow, it wouldn't sock her if he had.

She was pulled from her thoughts by a tray floating into the room ahead of her host, lighting on the coffee table with a soft clink of porcelain on wood. The man, for his part, lowered himself into the tatty armchair opposite the couch, finding his seat like a hawk taking perch.

He lifted a hand and she had to stop herself from flinching upon spotting his wand. He drew a pattern in the air, and then movement on the tray caught her eye as the tea began pouring itself. A fragrant, steaming cup floated gracefully upward to be caught deftly by the ear, a gentle breath dispelling the steam from the surface, before it was brought to his lips.

His wand-hand lowered to rest in his lap as he watched her over the rim and Allie felt herself flush a little as she realised that her own beverage would not be served by magical means. Scooting forward, she set about it the manual way, obscenely aware of how loud the clink of porcelain sounded in the strained silence of the room.

There were biscuits on a plate; the sugar-dusted circlets seeming aberrant against the austerity of this place and the man who called it "home." It was impossible to imagine her host doing any sort of baking, yet the cookies were obviously homemade. She was quite convinced by now that he lived alone, though. Perhaps a neighbour had taken pity.

Her empty stomach clenched painfully as she reached for one, deliberately slowing her movements lest she grab at it like a feral thing.

In three bites the biscuit was gone and she reached for another, finishing that too before taking a swallow of tea. The heated liquid was like the Elixir of Life flowing down her throat; the blessed warmth of the cup chasing the chill from her hands.

With her belly momentarily appeased, her interest returned to her host, watching through the veil of her hair as he sipped his drink, eyes unfocussed as if scrutinising inward. He was being remarkably calm about the whole thing, she supposed. He didn't seem nearly as put-upon by her presence as she'd feared, although just how much could be read into his reaction, or lack thereof, remained to be seen.

They sat, drinking quietly for a while, each lost in their own ponderings until the man – her _father_, strange concept that it was – spoke up.

"What happened to your mother?"

So much for small talk then.

It was a fair question, though. One that Allie wished she could answer.

It was mere days after her tenth birthday that Vidius had darkened the doorway of Mrs. Norwick's flat (her minder while her mother worked at whatever menial job she'd secured for the month) declaring in a brisk tone that "Mummy's gone" and that _he_ would be her guardian from now on.

She had her suspicions of course.

While she doubted that Vidius would've gone so far as to murder his own sister, he was certainly not above selling her out to someone who would. The first flashes of Affectumency had beset her but a few short months prior and the swiftness with which her uncle had set to exploiting her budding "gift" told her a great deal about the man's eagerness "to take her under his wing" as he'd phrased it.

He'd pulled her from the Muggle state school she'd attended. And it was then that her education _truly_ began...

In reply to her host's question, Allie shrugged. "Wish I knew," she said honestly. "She went to work one day and then Uncle Vidius turned up, saying that she died. A couple of Aurors came by; asked him some questions. Then there was the funeral and that was the end of it."

"And this was when?"

"Three years ago."

"I see," he said, the pot floating up to replenish his tea. "Dare I ask what fate befell dear Vidius?" he asked next, his tone markedly less sombre than the inquiry about her mother had been.

Allie studied him a moment. "Crossed the wrong Squib. Little over a month ago," she summarised, wondering if it was indifference about life and death in general or some acquaintance with her uncle which left him so cavalier about the man's passing. Of all the sentiments Vidius Winterbourne had stirred in those who knew him, fondness was rarely high on the list.

Her host made no comment to that, simply raising a brow before sipping his tea and nodding to himself.

The irony of a member of the clan credited with inventing the most feared Unforgivable known to Wizardom, meeting his end at the hands of the magically misfortunate was not lost on her. And it hadn't even been business that night. He'd simply gone out drinking after issuing terse instructions for her to "stayput_._"

It was early the next morning when a Muggle policewoman had come knocking on the door of the room they'd rented for the one night in Bristol, searching for next of kin to identify the corpse.

They hadn't let her into the morgue, but they'd shown her the magically expanded magecraft satchel he'd never gone anywhere without (_Confundus_ ensuring that they hadn't tried to open it) and the wallet with his money and false IDs, asking if they looked familiar. Both items were sealed in evidence bags, but there was no mistaking the dark burgundy splodges that stained them. They'd told her briefly what had happened: three gunshot wounds to the chest. A fourth had missed, grazing his neck as she'd learned the moment her skin brushed the bag, the images fresh and pungent enough to transmit even through the thick plastic seal.

It was when she caught the terms "child services" and "school record" that a surreptitious _Confundus _of her own had seen her exiting the police station with both the satchel and wallet in hand, her heart in her throat and the question "_What now?_" like a Banshee's wail in her mind.

"Why've you not sought me out before?"

Another fair question. "I didn't know it was an option before," she replied levelly, tea and biscuits going a long way toward restoring her poise. "I only learned of you from the will. After the owl from the Goblins came." Said will had yet to be returned to her, but Allie was hardly concerned. His name was the only thing on it of any real value to her.

The man's jaw worked as if he were gritting his teeth, though he didn't seem conscious of doing so. Nervous habit possibly.

He met her eyes then, his own gaze narrowed.

"I'm not what most would consider financially endowed."

Her gaze flitted over the content of the room, biting her bottom lip to hold back a comment about stating the obvious.

"No," she agreed, "but you _are_ a wizard."

Her meaning could not be mistaken.

Magical ilk were not the most charitable of people when it came to their down-and-out. It was a rare thing for a Wizarding child to be left destitute true enough, but when such a thing _did_ occur, consignment to the Muggle welfare system was a fairly standard practice. According to the popular view, any youngster left without refuge simply _had_ to be the product of the most incompetent of Muggles and therefore it was only just to leave their care in Muggle hands.

Factual accuracy was irrelevant. Perception moved men like gravity moves water and changing minds was a task no less arduous than diverting a river from its course.

The situation probably wouldn't have been quite so bleak if she'd been attending a Wizarding school, but the point was moot. For her, Muggle welfare would mean Muggle schooling and the forfeiture of what little credibility she may ever have hoped to hold in the Wizarding World.

Even Squibs could carve out a niche with the right surname and enough galleons in a vault, but with neither prestige, nor wealth to her name, kin – _this_ _man_ – truly was all she had left.

How old are you?"

The question seemed non sequitur when combined with his tone and her suspicion that he already knew, making her instantly chary.

"Thirteen. Since March."

"Where are you enrolled?"

She ducked her head, eyes glued to the bottom of the cooling cup in her hands lest he pluck the truth from her mind.

"I went to—"

He didn't give her the chance to finish. "You're uneducated."

The comment touched a nerve and her head snapped up, forgetting the danger of meeting his eyes.

"I know all I _need_ to!" she defended indignantly, raising her chin in defiance.

"Spoken like an adolescent," he drawled, tough the quirk at the corner of his mouth stripped some of the spite from the statement.

He finished his tea and set the cup down on the tray, crossing legs and arms as he reclined.

"Very well. Since you've managed to survive Vidius' less-than-avuncular custody for as long as you have, I am going to assume that you can think a peg above the self-centred short-sightedness which is commonly regarded as your generation's prerogative and will thus be frank." He looked down his nose at her for a moment, giving his words a chance to sink in. "My circumstances are not such that I can conscionably accept responsibility for your wellbeing."

Allie felt her shoulders slump; her heart plunging into her shoes as desperation flooded her chest. Her breath hitched and her lips parted to speak, only to find her voice crushed under the weight of his glare.

"That is not to _say_," he went on, stressing the last word in a warning not to interrupt him, "that I am... _indifferent_ to the predicament you face. So what I propose is thus: I am a professor at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, which I assume you are familiar with," Allie nodded, even as her brows made a bid for her hairline in surprise, "and where – _by_ _law_ – you should have been in attendance since your eleventh year. Whatever knowledge your uncle may have seen fit to impart to you does not excuse this," he sneered, "_oversight_, which I will not tolerate any objections in correcting."

Allie felt her mouth fall open and closed it with a click. Did he just say what she thought he'd said?

School?

Really?

Just like that?

It's what she'd hoped for of course, but she'd been prepared for quite a bit of bargaining and wheedling before a decision was made. Nothing she'd wanted had ever come quite so easily to her and she found herself actually holding her breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

"That being said, there are certain appearances which I need to maintain that could be _severely_ jeopardised if it becomes known that..." he faltered. "If your identity becomes public knowledge. Once enrolled at Hogwarts, you will not make reference to me in any capacity other than that of your teacher. Not during the term, nor during the holiday season. Is that understood?"

Allie frowned. "But what am I suppose to say if someone asks who my guardians are? If the Ministry starts prying— "

Again he silenced her with a glare. "_You_ will devise a suitable cover to put across to your peers. _I_ shall see that the Ministry is appeased."

His eyes bore into hers. "If you are to reside here, then you will be courteous, respectful and above all _obedient_ in all interactions with me. I will _not_ hesitate to throw you to the Muggles if you tempt me. _Do_ _not_ test me in this. I am able to accommodate you for the remainder of the summer, however, in future it might become necessary for alternative arrangements to be made."

Her mind pounced on that. "What alternatives?" she asked, her tone quietly insisting.

His eyes narrowed, but after a moment he conceded. "My circumstances are not such that I can guarantee my whereabouts in a year's time. Whatever third parties may become involved will have nought but yours interests at heart, of that you can rest assured."

Allie nodded, mollified despite herself.

"Furthermore," he went on, "once at Hogwarts, you will do the necessary to catch up what you've missed and ensure that your academic performance is to a high enough standard that you will have no undue difficulty in securing employment after graduation. These are my terms. In return, I offer you the means to be properly integrated into Wizarding society without interference from outside authorities. Do you find this agreeable?"

Allie stared at the man, trying hard to keep the bewilderment she felt from showing on her face. She didn't know what she'd expected really, but such brusque formality certainly hadn't been it.

Still, it was good to be spoken _to _rather than _about _for once.

But why the insistence on secrecy?

All it took was a pair of eyes to know that he was the furthest thing from the fatherly type, though with the way he was carrying on, one would think it was a matter of national security!

Not that it mattered.

The same conclusion that had brought her over his threshold would inevitably shape her reply.

"Yes. Very much so," she confirmed in a voice that came out scratchy and low, keeping the observation about her lack of alternatives to herself.

She had a roof over her head, something warm in her stomach and the promise of prospects for the future – so much more than had seemed possible even a few scant hours ago.

She let her eyes drift closed for a moment. And drew in a breath that felt like her first.

~SEVERUS~

Stifling a huff, he glanced to his right, studying the snoozing portrait of erstwhile Headmaster Dippet in an attempt to ignore the way McGonagall's eyes kept darting between himself and the chit seated beside him. The woman's expression was a study in politely quelled disbelief and something akin to morbid curiosity, which had him thinking of the horned toads awaiting disembowelment in his laboratory with a disturbing degree of anticipation.

Given all her years of teaching, not least the three during which the Brat Who Lived had been a denizen of her House, he'd have thought that shocking her would've been a slightly more impressive achievement.

Then, of course, there was his mo—_Madam_ _Pince_, adjusting her monocle every ten seconds while looking down her nose at both him and the girl, ostensibly tallying the resemblances and differences between them as if checking for discrepancies in the tale he'd spent the last thirty minutes relaying.

Just what did she think? That he was doing this for amusement? A means of alleviating boredom?

Oh yes, because he had _nothing_ better to do with his leisure time than trawl the Black Country for an orphaned witch to claim as his spawn.

And _Albus..._

Gaze safely hidden behind the curtain of his hair, Severus hazarded a glance at the chair across from his.

Yes, the old codger was sitting there, still _twinkling_ at him as if itching to break out a round of cigars, Godforbid_._

Returning his regard to Headmaster Dippet, Severus rolled his eyes.

Even discounting the plethora of personal and practical difficulties of having parenthood thrust upon him with all the finesse of a rogue Bludger, the timing couldn't possibly be worse – what with whispers of Death Eaters being heard on the high street and the Dark Lord's mark looming on the front page of the papers – yet the old man seemed so inordinately pleased that Severus was finding it difficult not to wonder if this was _indeed_ the first the headmaster had heard of this turn of events. Knowing Dumbledore as he did, he wouldn't have been the least bit surprised if the doddering old meddler announced that he'd orchestrated it all as part of some elaborate ploy to drive home a point he'd been harping on for years about Severus' perceived need to "find meaning" in his life.

Bloody Gryffindors.

"Well then, Severus," his employer spoke up, pulling him from the dubious refuge of his thoughts, "if you're sure I can't tempt you with a fudge fly..." He held the tin of candied insects out to Snape, blue eyes shining fondly behind his spectacles.

"Quite sure Headmaster," Severus droned for what had to be the sixth time since stepping into the man's office forty minutes earlier. He watched dispassionately as Dumbledore smiled and repeated the offer to the girl who, also for the sixth time, declined with a shake of her head.

"Very well then. I think that leaves only one more thing to take care of," Dumbledore said as he set the tin aside. "Minerva," he added, inclining his head at his deputy.

Severus caught himself raising a hand to nibble on a thumbnail and resolutely planted both palms on the armrests of his chair, forcing down the urge to bounce his knee. The headmaster's office held more memories for him as an adult than a boy, and so it was perhaps fitting that he should find himself here, now, for _this_.

He watched as Minerva retrieved the Hat from its perch, plopping it onto the girl's head with a few murmured words and none of the usual fanfare associated with a Sorting: no sea of childish eyes picking apart her every move; no asinine ditties.

A perfectly enviable state of affairs in Severus' estimation.

Whether or not the girl would agree was another matter as he watched her sitting quietly with the rim of the frayed monstrosity brushing her nose, her nervousness obvious in the wringing hands in her lap; the slight inward curl of narrow shoulders.

The Sorter proceeded to take it's time. To the point that Severus was ready to rise and ensure that the forces governing it had indeed been activated. It was only the odd movement here and there, as thought the headpiece were bristling with the magic that held it together that kept him in his seat, waiting what felt like an age as it searched through more than her mind, sleuthing through the very essence of her being.

It was the slight tick at his temple that finally alerted him to just how tightly his jaw was clenched – about on par with the white-knuckled grip of his hands on Albus' furniture and he forced himself to relax, keeping his gaze carefully averted lest any of the three sets of eyes in the room catch it and latch on. He held no opinion on which House she was Sorted into, surely. More of a burden than anything should she be thrust into his care not only at Spinner's End, but Hogwarts as well. Indeed it would be far preferable for all concerned if she—

"Slytherin!" burst from the brim of the Hat, cutting off Severus' thoughts with the sureness of a well placed _Sectumsempra._

In the wake of the Hat's declaration, he felt a calm settle over him that would have been disturbing if it hadn't paled against the swell of what felt ominously like pride in his chest.

He should be made wary by this development. Merlin knew, if anyone understood the viper pit that was Slytherin House (and the set of characteristics needed to survive it) it would be _him_.

Like it or not, he could not doubt that the chit was spawn of his loins, and as he watched McGonagall retrieve the Hat from her head, her eyes seeking his, carefully neutral yet eager for his opinion in the way none but another Snakeling would recognise, he felt a moment of... _affinity_ perhaps?

And more alarming still, it was not a sentiment he loathed.

~FIN~

**End A/N:** Just a few things on canony/fandomy points:

For the "Real World" location of Spinner's End, I just went with the stats of an actual street in England with that name. I'm sure the real Cradley Heath is a perfectly nice place to live, so no one has to comment to convince me, okay? It's just a story. Go with it.

On the pureblood issue, I'm aware of Bella's comment in HBP stating that she and Ciccy are probably the first "purebloods" to set foot in Sevy's hometown. Just keep in mind, in the World of Bella, Eileen would've been a blood traitor and therefore no longer worthy of the title, so I'm taking the statement as a political one, rather than a matter of genetics_. _Also, Irma Pince's "true" identity is purely fandom speculation, but it works for me.

"Affectumency" is loosely based on psychometry_,_ which you can look up if you're really interested. The term comes from "affectus" (the Latin word for emotion) and "mens" (meaning mind), which makes no sense, but _does _sound neat and that is all that matters.

Lastly, in case anyone was wondering, _foie gras_ is a type of pâté made from the livers of geese and ducks that have been funnel-fed on rich feeds to induce the birdie equivalent of NAFLD, which apparently makes it taste good. It's one of those things that embodies cruelty and decadence to me, so it's _totally_ something I see the Malfoys serving.


End file.
